


Runs in the Family

by Laur



Series: Paintball [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humour, Kid Fic, Love, Paintball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We need to work on your aim,” Sherlock retorted, crouching down and pulling the girl with him as a member of the opposing team passed by. “Haven’t your parents taught you anything?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runs in the Family

**Author's Note:**

> I was going for funny and ended up with mostly fluff. Oh, well. I figure if I had fun writing it, someone will enjoy reading it.

A muffled _pop_ was the only warning they got before yellow paint exploded over Sally’s upper arm. She swore violently and stumbled in surprise. A girlish laugh came from the brick wall several meters ahead of where Sally and Greg were standing. 

“Oh, awesome!” Sally spit. “It runs in the family!”

Greg yanked her around another obstacle to shield them. “You’re not out yet – arms don’t count.”

“But this does!” came the deep baritone of an insufferably dramatic consulting detective.

_POP! POP!_

Two blurs of yellow entered their field of vision, one ball hitting each in the chest. 

“Ow!” Greg complained.

Sally swore again. 

A head of dark, curly hair, silvering at the temples, popped out from around a stack of piled logs. “Watch your language!” Sherlock’s reprimand was weakened by the obvious glee in the voice. “She’s only thirteen.”

Greg rolled his eyes. As if Sherlock cared about that. “Alright, we’re out!” he shouted, trudging off towards the dead zone.

Sally raised her gun over her head and followed, grumbling unintelligibly under her breath.

 

A short figure bounded over to the consulting detective, blond hair sticking out around the straps of her face mask. “Nice one, Uncle Sherlock! You got ‘em both!” She gazed up at him, grinning widely, her head only coming level with his chest.

“We need to work on your aim,” Sherlock retorted, crouching down and pulling the girl with him as a member of the opposing team passed by. “Haven’t your parents taught you anything?”

She rolled her eyes in a way more reminiscent of her adopted uncle than any Watson gene she possessed. Stepping away from Sherlock, she quickly brought up her paintball gun, lined up her sights, exhaled and fired. A shout of surprise came from the player as paint burst over his upper spine. Turning back, she raised both her eyebrows at the consulting detective.

Sherlock pursed his lips, fighting a grin at her defiant expression. “I see.”

“Mum’s been giving me tips and Dad’s brought me to the Yard’s shooting range a few times.”

“Obviously.”

“I just wasn’t in a good position to get both Sally and Greg, so I sent them to you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock got up from his crouch, grimacing at his protesting joints (ugh, _aging_ , how dull), “clearly.” 

“Are we gonna go get the flag?” she asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. 

Sherlock frowned. Six minutes into the game and still no sign of John or Mary. It was making him nervous. 

“No…” he rumbled. “No, here’s what we’re going to do.” He beckoned her closer.

 

“John, don’t be an idiot, it’s a trap!” Mary hissed, grabbing her husband’s arm.

The sounds of wet sniffling emanated from around the corner, where their daughter sat in a pathetic heap of baggy camo clothing and adolescent suffering. 

“She’s crying! What if she’s hurt?” John countered, shrugging out of his wife’s grip.

Mary shook her head. “When has she ever cried because something hurts? She’s more stubborn than you are!” 

John glared at her and began heading towards the sound of tears.

“You know what Sherlock would say? ‘Sentiment’!” Mary stage-whispered after him.

John ignored her and kneeled by his daughter’s side. “Sophie, love, what’s wrong?” He stroked a hand over her hair, wishing he could take off her mask so he could see her face more clearly. Under his hand, Sophie started to shake. Alarmed, John pulled her to face him. “Sophie, what –?"

Behind the mask, Sophie was laughing. “I thought it would be Mom, but Sherlock was right!” 

John pulled away as if burned, whipping his paintball gun around and eyes searching wildly. 

Stationed in the window of a little wooden shack, Sherlock smirked as the gray head of his best friend jerked away from Sophie. “ _Sentiment_ ,” he scoffed to himself, and pulled the trigger. 

“Told you so!” Mary shouted as John did the shameful walk to the dead zone. 

“Oh, real mature!” He shouted back. 

Sophie and Sherlock snickered.

 

“You’re small and fast. John won’t let me use your skills on cases,” Sherlock’s exasperation at this was the result of many tedious arguments – honestly, what was the point of children if not to make them do things for you? – “so we’ll just have to put them to use here.”

Sophie stared doubtfully at the vast open space between the wall they were leaning against and the red flag. “Seems pretty risky. There’s no cover.”

“Don’t be stupid, I’ll cover you.”

Sophie stared at him with wide eyes. “What if you’re hit?”

Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned.

“Really? You’d do that for me?” 

The awe in her voice reminded Sherlock strongly of her father, but when Sherlock stuttered uncomfortably, the teasing quality in her eyes was much more like Mary. 

“I – it’s only a game – stupid, really –”

Grinning, Sophie patted his arm. “No worries. I love you, too, Uncle Sherlock.” She laughed at the shocked look on his face, turned and ran for the flag. 

The sight of her tiny figure out in the open jolted Sherlock into action. Quickly, he stepped after her and turned around, searching for any muzzles. 

_POP!_

A red ball flew past Sherlock and the detective returned fire without thinking, hitting the shooter’s arm and chest. 

_POP! POP!_

That had come from somewhere on the right – 

A pained yelp came from behind Sherlock, but he forced himself not to turn to check on Sophie. He let loose a round of yellow paint balls, but the shooter was already out of sight. 

“Got it!” Sophie gasped, running passed him back to cover.

Shortening his stride so as not to overtake her, Sherlock followed. 

“Alright?” he asked, eyes raking over her and stopping on the red splatter on her gloved hand. 

Sophie’s eyes were a little watery and she shook her hand ruefully, as if that would dispel the pain, but her laugh sounded exhilarated. “That was brilliant! Let’s move or else someone will stop us before we get the flag to our base.” 

Sherlock nodded and they set off back the way they’d come.

 

Mary scowled as her sights on her daughter were blocked by Sherlock. The lanky man somehow managed to completely obscure Sophie as she scurried along, darting between obstacles and keeping her back to walls. Mary hummed in approval – Sophie was obviously thinking of what her parents had taught her. 

Sophie’s arm was visible, but Mary didn’t want to hit her anywhere but her chest or back – where the most padding was. She’d hit her hand by accident earlier, not expecting Sophie’s sudden movement. She’d half hoped Sherlock would be distracted enough for Mary to shoot him, but he hadn’t even flinched. Iron control, that one. If it weren’t for the innumerable clues of Sherlock’s adoration of Sophie every time the Watsons visited Baker Street, Mary would have thought Sherlock hadn’t cared that Sophie had been hit at all. 

“Damn,” Mary muttered. She’d lost sight of them again. God only knew where the rest of her teammates were. At the rate things were going, Sophie was going to successfully return the red flag to the yellow team’s base before Mary could stop them. She needed to get Sherlock out of the picture. 

 

“Little Watson!” whispered Terry, one of the police constables. “You got the flag?”

Sophie glanced over at where one of the yellow-team members was leaning out of the window of the brick building her and Sherlock were leaning against.

“Obviously – do you not have eyes?” Sherlock muttered.

Sophie elbowed him. “Be nice.” To Terry she smiled. “Yeah, Sherlock helped me. Wanna join us?” 

Terry nodded and jumped through the window, landing softly on the grass. “We’re almost back at base, but there’s a team of four nearby that we need to be careful of.”

“And Mary,” Sherlock warned, eyes darting around the surrounding walls and buildings. 

“No John?” Terry asked.

“Sherlock got him already.” 

“Oh, good! Well, let’s just go and keep an eye out.”

 

“Alright, you lot. Listen up. I’ll give you all positions and tell you who you’re shooting at. Either Sherlock or Terry.”

“Sorry – Mary? What about Sophie?”

“She’s my target, don’t worry about her. Alright, here’s how it’s going to go…”

 

“It’s quiet…” Terry muttered ominously.

“Too quiet,” Sophie replied and they both laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously they’re planning something for us. They’ll expect us to make a straight line to the base, so we should come in from the side instead. That way they won’t surround us on all sides.”

“That’s smart!” Sophie agreed. 

Terry chuckled at the consulting detective’s smug look. 

They made a bit of a detour and stopped when they came to the last section of cover before their team’s base. 

“You sure you don’t want me to do it?” Terry asked Sophie.

The girl scowled at him. “I can do it! Just ‘cause I’m small doesn’t mean I’m not fast!” 

Terry held up his hands in placation. “Never said you aren’t fast. Just making sure, kid.”

“Don’t run in a straight line. Zig-zag so you’re a harder target,” Sherlock offered.

“I knoooow,” Sophie replied. “C’mon, it’s so close, can I go?”

So much energy and stubbornness in one tiny body. So innocent, and yet she thought she could conquer the world. Normally, such naivety would earn Sherlock’s scorn, but for Sophie he felt only affection and protectiveness. How odd sentiment was. They shared no blood relation and yet he cared for her as deeply as he had for Mycroft as a child (and, though he would never admit it, still did care), more deeply than he had felt for Redbeard. Sherlock didn’t care about paintball, or whether or not they won, but Sophie cared. It mattered to Sophie, and how could Sherlock disappoint this child he had known since the day she was born?

“Uncle Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked, refocusing on the present situation. “Right, yes. Run and don’t look back.”

Sophie grinned hugely, muttered a "Got it," and took off.

“Shit!” Terry hissed, scrambling after her. “She is fast!”

The moment Terry came into view, a symphony of _popopopopopop_ began as paintballs flew in his direction. Sherlock moved to help screen Sophie, but her unpredictable course made it difficult. Both men were forced to weave and duck, and Sherlock noticed that none of the paintballs were aimed at Sophie. Squinting, Sherlock caught sight of the muzzle of the one person not shooting at them.

 _Mary_. 

As he watched, a single red paintball exited the muzzle, its target clearly not Terry or Sherlock. Without thought, the detective jumped into the paintball’s path. In what was surely a coincidence, but entirely too romantic for Sherlock’s liking, the red paintball struck his lower right chest, right over the scar of the real bullet wound Mary had given him fourteen years ago. 

As he landed hard on the ground, Sophie blew the whistle signifying the end of the game. Terry, covered in red paint, let out a whoop of victory. The red team gave a collective groan. Sherlock brushed himself off as he pushed himself to his feet.

“I did it, Uncle Sherlock!” Sophie exclaimed. Her eyes widened when she saw the red paint on his chest. “Oh, darn! You did get hit!” 

“Yes, you really must tell your mother it’s becoming tedious.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Great job, Little Watson.” Terry raised a hand for a high five. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

Sophie slapped his hand hard enough that the constable made a show of shaking his hand in pain.

 

Sophie was bouncing as she met John and the rest of the players on the sidelines. Where did all the energy come from, Sherlock wondered.

“Dad! Dad, I captured the flag! Did you see me? I captured the flag!”

John caught his daughter in a hug, lifting her from the ground in a way that Sherlock suspected he wouldn’t be able to do much longer. “Of course I saw you!” With his hands on her shoulders, John held Sophie at arm’s length. “And where did you learn that nasty crying trick?” 

Sophie grinned sheepishly and John glared at Sherlock.

“She’s a much better actor than you are,” Sherlock answered seriously. “And being able to cry on command is an invaluable skill for manipulation.” 

Off to the side, Sally groaned at Greg. “I was wrong. It’s not inherited. It’s nurture, not nature.” 

Greg couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’ve got yourself a courageous young lady there, John,” he said, as Mary sidled up next to Sherlock.

John smiled at Sophie with such love even Sherlock could see it.

“Yeah, she’s alright.” John pulled her into a one armed choke hold, gently crushing her to his side, and glanced at Mary and then Greg. “We’ll keep her.”

“You’re just put off a thirteen-year-old kicked your arse!” Terry snickered. “Is your pa a sore loser, Sophie?”

Sophie made an exaggerated choking sound as if her father’s arm were strangling her, inciting laughter from the group.

“Oi, what a drama queen you are.” John rolled his eyes, but loosened his hold. “Wonder where you got that from?” he added dryly.

As the rest of the group laughed and chatted, Mary leaned closer to Sherlock. “You’re coming over for dinner tonight,” she informed him.

“Oh?” 

Mary hummed. “Invite Mrs. Hudson, too. It’s been ages since we’ve had a proper family dinner.”

‘Family dinner’ was an entirely inaccurate term, as Harry Watson would most definitely not be joining them, but Sherlock figured this was another one of those sentiment things – like Sophie calling him ‘Uncle Sherlock’ – and decided not to correct her. Actually, he’d rather been hoping to start that toe experiment this evening, but, well…

“Shall I invite Mycroft along, too?” he asked sarcastically so as not to sound too agreeable. He had a certain sociopathic reputation to uphold after all.

“Why not? Sophie finds your bickering hilarious,” Mary challenged. 

Sherlock grimaced. “I wouldn’t wish to subject you to the indigestion his presence would cause.”

Mary laughed. 

 

“Sherlock’s coming over for dinner,” Mary informed John and Sophie as all the sore paintballers dispersed.

Sophie beamed at Sherlock as the four of them began walking to the car.

“Oh, yeah?” John smiled, familiar lines creasing his face with happiness. “You can tell Sophie about that case, The Navel Treatment.”

“The _Navel_ Treatment?” Sophie exclaimed in amused disbelief.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Your father is terrible at naming things.”

“It’s true. That’s why I named you,” Mary cut in. 

“It was murder involving belly buttons! What else was I supposed to call it?”

“Literally _anything_ else,” Sherlock replied, smirking when Sophie guffawed. 

“Hey!” John pointed at him. “You were going to call it the _Belly Button Murders_.”

“No, I wasn’t! I was _joking_ , obviously. I wasn’t going to call it anything. It was for _your_ blog.”

They bickered the rest of the way to the car, Sophie snickering between them. 

 

Sherlock would go home, collect Mrs. Hudson, and together they’d go to the Watson household. They would eat potatoes that were too runny and chicken that was dry (neither soldier nor spy cared much for the culinary arts) and Mrs. Hudson would bring an excellent cake to make up for it. Sherlock would regale them with tales of past cases, back when it was just Sherlock and John, when it was Hat-Man and Robin, and he would miss it but he wouldn’t change anything for the world. Because John’s eyes would crinkle as he held Mary’s hand under the table, and Sophie would exclaim and laugh and praise at all the right parts (as easy to impress as her father and just as satisfying), and Mrs. Hudson would treat Sophie like the grandchild she’d never have and Sherlock would be part of it. It should be terribly dull, monstrously mundane and domestic and sentimental. And yet. He wouldn’t change anything for the world. 

It still amazed him that when the Watsons had ‘family dinner’, it was only when Sherlock was there.


End file.
